by Greg Cox
There was a moment of awkward silence as both Cap and Iron Man looked toward the seated Vision.
If anyone might know where Wanda is ... the armored Avenger thought. The Vision and the Scarlet Witch had been deeply in love once, even happily married with two small children of their own. But several tragic reversals of fortune, including the loss of their twin sons, had taken its toll on their union. The Vision had even been completely disassembled and reconstructed at least once, losing much of his earlier personality in the process—or so it appeared. Iron Man didn’t pretend to understand all that had happened to their relationship, but it was clearly no longer what it once was, and had not been for some time.
It can’t be easy for them, he thought, still living under the same roof, fighting beside each other as members of the same team. Still, that was none of his business, even now.
Perhaps sensing his human teammates’ discomfort, the Vision volunteered what he knew without being asked. “I believe Wanda expressed an interest in visiting an exhibition at a local museum, but I do not know when she expected to return.”
Cap nodded solemnly, his chiseled jaw firmly set beneath his cowl. “Well, why don’t we get started without her,” he decided as chairman.
Iron Man agreed silently, taking a seat at the table. It was unlike Wanda to skip out on official Avengers business, but, given all the hardships she had endured over the last few years, he was inclined to cut her some slack. We can always fill her in later if we have to.
Cap walked over to the primary viewscreen and activated the widescreen monitor, which flared to life with a faint phosphor glow. ‘ ‘I received the following transmission at roughly 1300 hours. I think it speaks for itself.” A prerecorded image appeared on the screen, depicting the scowling visage of Nick Fury, director of the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistic Directorate. Four times larger than life, Fury glared out from the monitor with his one good eye. A simple black eyepatch concealed the remains of his other eye, while what looked like a day’s worth of stubble bristled along his jaw, which chomped down, as usual, on a cheap cigar. Only the gray at his temples hinted that the veteran spymaster had been around just as long as Captain America. Fury was a tough old warhorse, Iron Man knew; Stark had personally recommended Fury for his post at S.H.I.E.L.D., back when it was still called the Supreme Headquarters International Espionage and Law-enforcement Division.
“Listen up, heroes,” Fury barked. His voice was as gravelly as a bad stretch of road. “S.H.I.E.L.D. has confirmed several UFO sightings in New York State, at least five in the last three hours. We’re not talking swamp gas or weather balloons here; this looks like the real deal.” His scowl deepened, as if the alleged alien spacecraft had arrived just to make his life difficult. He bit down hard on the base of his stogie. A puff of gray smoke rose from the burning tobacco. “Invading ETs are more your line than ours, so you’d better be on the lookout and get ready for anything. Full details of the sightings are being transmitted to your computers—under maximum encryption, natch—even while I’m sitting here jawin’ about this. That’s all for now. Let me know if we’re about to be overrun by little green men. Fury out.”
The screen went blank, shutting itself off as it reached the end of the communication. Cap let the ominous message sink in for a moment before speaking. He gave Iron Man a quizzical look. “I don’t suppose Stark Industries is testing any experimental aircraft in this vicinity?” “Stark Solutions,” Iron Man corrected him, supplying the name of his new-and-improved corporation. He was proud of his latest enterprise. He shook his head. “I would’ve alerted S.H.I.E.L.D. ahead of time in any case.” “I figured as much,” Cap said. “I spoke with Reed Richards earlier. The Fantastic Four don’t know anything about this either.”
“What about the X-Men?” Iron Man asked. Compared to the FF or the Avengers, the mutant team were renegades as far as the government was concerned. He couldn’t imagine that Wolverine and company bothered to notify the authorities when they went offworld or hosted extraterrestrial visitors.
Typical, Iron Man thought, a frown marring his debonair features. He didn’t buy into all the anti-mutant hysteria that sometimes got directed at the X-Men, but he had to admit that the whole bunch of them had always struck him as a pack of dangerously loose cannons, even if they had managed to cooperate (barely) with the Avengers on a couple of occasions. Why can’t they work within the system like the rest of us?
“Apparently not,” Cap answered. “I quietly dropped a line to the Beast, and he assured me that we can cross the X-Men off our list of suspects, although he couldn’t vouch for all their splinter groups.”
Iron Man rolled his eyes. X-Factor. X-Force. Excali-bur. Generation X. . . there’s even some kid calling himself X-Man running around these days. He couldn’t blame Hank McCoy for not being able to keep track of all his fellow mutants. I can’t make sense of it myself. He sighed wearily. We Avengers may retool our membership periodically, but at least we always know who’s who. And you can tell the good guys from the bad. . . .
‘ ‘Then it could be almost anybody behind these sightings,” he objected. “The Kree, the Skrulls, the Badoon, Galactus. Even the Stone Men from Jupiter. And that’s assuming that this UFO really is extraterrestrial in origin, and not just some new high-tech aircraft cooked up by Zemo or Hydra or someone.”
“Fury has his own sources of information,” Cap pointed out, sitting down at the table between the Vision and Iron Man. His trusty shield rested within easy reach. “If he says that none of our local mad geniuses are responsible, I’m inclined to believe him.”
That was true, Iron Man conceded. S.H.I.E.L.D wasn’t known as the world’s premiere intelligence operation for nothing; Fury probably knew what the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants had for breakfast. “So what do we do now?” he asked. “Take notes while we watch The X-FilesT’
Cap raised an eyebrow under his cowl, looking a bit puzzled by the allusion. Iron Man guessed that Captain America, having grown up with old-time radio, didn’t watch much TV.
“Never mind,” he told Cap. “But besides notifying all our auxiliary members, I’m not sure what else Fury expects us to do.”
The double doors behind him swung open and Jarvis entered the meeting room, carrying a silver tray on which Iron Man spied three china cups. “Excuse the interruption, gentlemen, but I thought you might care for a spot of refreshment.” He strolled around the table, handing out the steaming cups. “A black coffee for you, sir,” he said to Captain America, “and a cappuchino for you, Master Stark.” The butler did not offer the third cup to the Vision, since the solar-powered synthezoid had little need of food or drink, but instead looked about the meeting room. “I say, has Mistress Wanda not yet returned? I thought sure that she would have arrived by now, perhaps while I was busying myself in the kitchen.”
“I confess that I grow increasingly concerned about the Scarlet Witch’s continued absence,” the Vision intoned. Iron Man had heard automated answering machines that sounded warmer. “I have never known her to disregard an official summons.”
He has a point, Iron Man thought. When Wanda had served as team leader for the West Coast Avengers, before that branch of the team was dissolved, she had been a stickler for punctuality, usually arriving several minutes before any planned meeting. It was always possible that her tardiness today had a perfectly innocent explanation— perhaps her I.D. card had been misplaced or malfunctioned—but Lord knows it wouldn’t be the first time that an individual Avenger had been waylaid by one or more of their many foes.
“Easy enough to check out,” he said, reaching for his helmet. Putting the headpiece back into place, the magnetic seals engaging automatically, he employed a cybernetic command to activate the helmet’s built-in antenna array. A priority signal, keyed to Wanda’s specific coded frequency, and strong enough to reach her anywhere within New York’s five boroughs, issued from the powerful communications equipment embedded in Iron Man’s armor.
A
shame if we alarm her unnecessarily, he thought, but better safe than sorry.
“Iron Man to Scarlet Witch. Priority Yellow. Please reply.”
To his surprise, he couldn’t even get a lock on the card. Not only did Wanda not respond verbally, but there was no indication that the card was anywhere within range of the signal, which argued conclusively against it being left downstairs somewhere.
Blast it, Wanda, what the devil has happened to you?
“Iron Man to Scarlet Witch,” he repeated, more urgently this time. “Let us know where you are.”
Nothing.
“This isn’t good,” Iron Man reported to Cap and the Vision. Was that a flicker of anxiety in the synthezoid’s glittering plastic eyes or merely a trick of the light? “I can’t reach her at all, or even get a fix on her location.” He silenced the static in his earpiece, abandoning his efforts to establish contact with the missing mutant sorceress. “I don’t like this one bit. Wanda wouldn’t just leave the city without telling anyone.”
Not of her own free will, that is.
//§ et’s go, people!” Cyclops shouted. “Hurry!”
L A series of explosions rocked the alien space station, punctuating the X-Man’s command with a string of seismic exclamation points.
I need no further urging, Storm thought, running down the quaking corridor, the diminished gravity, less than a third of Earth-normal, seeming to add wings to her feet. She was anxious to leave this cold and sterile environment behind. Transparent portholes, revealing the blackness of interstellar space, only emphasized how far this place was from the gentle winds, cool waters, and nurturing sunlight of her beloved Mother Earth. The cramped confines of the silver corridor, added to the enclosed nature of the entire station, induced an all-too-familiar sense of claustrophobia, but Storm refused to let any irrational fears, no matter how deeply ingrained, distract her from the challenge at hand.
If we can just make it to the shuttle, she thought, before the whole station falls apart!
They were running out of time. Already the walkway buckled beneath her feet, venting gusts of hot gas and ionized plasma which she and her two companions were forced to dodge as they ran, trusting on agility and adrenaline to avoid the hazards that sprang up in their path again and again. Ahead of her, the Beast bounded over a ruptured steam pipe, his powerful legs propelling him well above the pipe itself, so that his shaggy dark blue fur was only slightly scalded by the blistering steam spewing forth from the jagged cleft.
SO
“Alley oop!” he called exuberantly, landing upon his massive hands, which he used to launch himself further down the corridor. “Come along, my brother- and sister-in-arms. Our heavenly chariot awaits!”
“Just have it warmed up and ready to go,” Cyclops ordered him, sounding like he was only a few yards behind Storm. In contrast to the effusive Beast, his voice was brusque and humorless. “This is going to be a close one.”
If we make it at all, Storm thought grimly.
The harsh clamor of metal supports crumpling and crashing upon each other came from the heart of the station, merely three levels away. Although the outer hull had not yet been breached, exposing them to the deadly vacuum outside, she knew that complete explosive decompression—and near instantaneous death—was only minutes away.
This is taking too long, she realized. We need Rogue or Wolverine. But the X-Men’s numbers were sorely reduced today, leaving only the three of them to face this latest trial by fire.
Steaming vapor filled the corridor before her. Storm realized her own legs could hardly duplicate the Beast's spectacular leap, even allowing for the lesser gravity, so she called upon her own mutant abilities instead, taking hold of the pressurized atmosphere with her mind and shaping it to her will. Elemental energy suffused her eyes, masking the striking blue orbs behind an impenetrable white glow. A robust wind sprung to life within the ordinarily weatherless environment of the station, fluttering the wings of slick black fabric that hung beneath her arms and blowing the scalding steam away from her path. It took only seconds to disperse the hot mist, then an incandescent red beam shot past Storm to crush the exposed pipe to a flattened mass of lead, sealing the leak completely.
“Good work,” said Cyclops, the source of the irresistible force beam. “Now keep moving. We haven’t got much time.”
/ am quite aware of that, thank you, Storm thought, slightly irked by Cyclops’s tone. Sometimes, Scott Summers forgot that he was no longer the sole leader of the X-Men, that indeed Storm had earned co-leader status within the group. She didn’t take it personally, though, knowing that Cyclops drove everyone else almost as hard as he drove himself.
She raced over the squashed pipe, taking advantage of the sudden gale to literally take flight down the corridor, rising upon the wind currents until the vaulted ceiling hung less than an inch above her billowing crown of snow-white hair. Another flicker of claustrophobia stirred at the back of her mind, but she quashed it mercilessly. Now was no time to succumb to the terrors of the past. She looked for the Beast, but could not spot him ahead; he must have gained a considerable lead on them.
Godspeed, my friend, she urged him silently. May we meet again soon.
An airlock door slammed shut in front of her, the heavy bulkhead blocking her and Cyclops’s escape and cutting them off from the Beast.
An automated safety measure, she guessed. And a most inconvenient one. Landing gracefully before the door, her feet touching down upon the shuddering walkway, she tugged at the wheel-shaped handle with both hands, but it wouldn’t budge. The gray steel door remained fixed in place.
“Stand back!” Cyclops yelled, and this time she didn’t object. His optic blasts were their best chance now. She flattened her back against the adjacent wall, distressed to feel the convulsive tremors vibrating through the straining steel, and watched as her fellow X-Man approached the airlock. His costume, a streamlined variation on the same blue-and-gold uniform he had worn since the bygone days of the original X-Men team, did not call attention away from the gleaming metallic visor that covered his eyes, Inside the visor, only a single ruby quartz lens, about eight inches in length, held back the awesome energies contained within Scott Summer’s eyes.
The lens receded, unleashing a brilliant burst of energy that struck the sealed airlock with the force of a battering ram, knocking the airtight door off its hinges. The metal bulkhead, six inches thick, crashed onto the floor with a resounding peal that hurt Storm’s ears. Nevertheless, she and Cyclops had sped past the now-open doorframe before the reverberating echoes of the crash even began to fade. The ruby lens in Cyclops’s visor slid back into place, blocking his devastating eyebeams once more. A stray breeze rustled his short brown hair.
Storm galloped down the corridor as fleetly as the gazelles of the African veldt she had once called home. Her knee-high black boots pounded rapidly against the floor until, just around the next comer, she encountered a shocking sight that brought both she and Cyclops to an abrupt halt.
Bright Lady, no! she thought.
Three Brood warriors, their brown insectoid bodies hideous beyond belief, held the Beast at bay. Each hostile alien skittered across the floor on four spidery legs, hissing at the embattled blue mutant through gaping jaws filled with rows of needle-like teeth. Membranous wings vibrated furiously behind large triangular skulls. Their razor-sharp forelimbs slashed at the Beast, who hung upside-down from an exposed power conduit in the ceiling, batting away the stabbing thrusts of the Brood monsters with his disproportionally large fists.
“Paging Sigourney Weaver,” he quipped in the face of danger, glimpsing his comrades’ arrival out of the corner of his eye. “We appear to have an indisputable bug infestation problem on our hands.”
“Do not let the mammal escape!” the central insectoid commanded its fellow Brood. A throat not meant for human speech screeched every word. Its venomous, twopronged stinger stood poised at the far end of its tail, but, focused exclusively on the Beast, the
creature had not yet spotted either Storm or Cyclops. Its demonic, serpentine eyes were fixed on the hanging mutant. “His unique genetic material will strengthen our young!”
The unforeseen appearance of the Brood caught Storm by surprise. This is supposed to be a Shi’ar station, she recalled. What are the Brood doing here?
Her astonishment slowed her only a moment, though; reflexes honed against foes even more deadly than these sent her running forward to defend her imperiled ally. As yet, the Beast seemed to have avoided serious injury, but he was clearly outnumbered, fighting a losing defensive struggle against a half-dozen segmented spears. Its wings vibrating so rapidly that they were practically invisible, the nearest Brood began to lift off from the floor, taking the battle closer to the Beast.
“Cyclops,” Storm instructed hastily, “the one on the left is yours. I’ll take the right.”
Despite their occasional rivalry, Cyclops followed her lead without hesitation. His forcebeam lashed out again, smiting the armored carapace of a malevolent insectoid, who let out an inhuman squawk as it tumbled backwards down the corridor. The remaining drones turned their wedge-shaped skulls toward the mutant reinforcements. Slitted red eyes, strangely reptilian in appearance, glared at Storm with unremitting virulence. Their wings buzzed as loudly as a swarm of bees. To the Brood, as she knew only too well, other species were only fit to be the involuntary hosts of their vile, invasive progeny.
They shall plant no eggs in me, she vowed, caught up in the heat of the conflict, nor in the precious flesh of my friends.
The starboard Brood sprang forward with alarming speed, slashing out at her exposed midriff with a barbed forelimb. “We know you, X-Men!” it squawked. “You shall not defy us again!”
Storm barely threw herself backwards in time to evade a cutting blow across her abdomen. Gods of earth and air, defend me! she prayed, calling upon the tempest that was her namesake.
Electrical fury coursed through her, streaming toward her fingertips, from which a sizzling bolt of lightning leapt to strike the attacking Brood upon its brow. Sparks erupted where the thunderbolt hit, followed by scintillating white-hot traceries that spread over the electrified form of the alien parasite. The noxious smell of burnt insect flesh mixed with a trace of ozone in the air. The monster’s spindly legs gave out and it collapsed onto the floor, its impotent forelimbs still twitching spasmodically, its translucent wings folding in upon themselves.
